


The Photograph

by thinkpink20



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John plays finders keepers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Photograph

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://pics.livejournal.com/thinkpink20/pic/000spkd1) photograph taken by Mike McCartney of Paul at Forthlin Road.

It's late evening and they're getting ready to go out, though in time honoured tradition, Paul is taking twice as long as any self respecting owner of a pair of testicles. John sighs loudly, looks pointedly at his watch, then begins tapping his foot loudly on the floor.

"That won't make me go any faster," Paul says, teasing a strand of hair into place with a comb.

"No, but it will keep me busy until I kill you," John tells him. "I'll make it death by..." he looks around the room for a weapon; the most lethal thing he can light upon is Mike's photo developing tonic. "Chemical," John finishes, picking up the bottle. "Fancy a pile of this stuff down your neck?"

Paul glances at him via the mirror he is currently looking into. "Looks a bit shabby."

"So do you," John says, putting it back. "No amount of hours staring in that thing will change it, either."

They are in Mike's bedroom, as this is where there mirror is. And the wardrobe that houses Paul's clothing, unmoved since Paul shifted himself into the tiny room at the front of the house so that Mike could turn his bedroom into a dark-room. Of course, this means there are photographs lying around everywhere too.

John gets up and wanders around, flicking through the small piles of pictures here and there; too many of him in his stupid glasses, looking like an advertisement for a disabled school, and the odd one of Old Man Jim looking shocked at being caught out. John laughs silently to himself at the wrinkles on his face, wonders if Paul will look this much like a worn old leather sofa when he's in his sixties - that'll teach the vain bastard.

"God, come the fuck on, Paul!" John eventually says, in frustration.

"Inventive swearing, even for you," Paul mutters, trying to control his fringe just so to make himself look ruffled but cared for.

"The girls will be there by now, probably being chatting up by some blokes who actually bothered to turn up on time. Do you actually even care if Dot goes off with someone punctual?"

But Paul doesn't answer, and John doesn't have anywhere near enough drink inside him to storm out, so he drops himself onto Mike's bed like a child with a tantrum and moans loudly. "I'm bored now!"

"Patience, John."

"You sound like Mimi. No, actually, worse than that - you _look_ like Mimi; you look like an old woman who hasn't had any in a very, very long time."

Paul laughs at that, even turns to giggle in John's direction and John feels an instant stab of satisfaction. He's suddenly no longer bored. "I bet it's all gone south, hasn't it? You've all dried up and turned to liking little pictures of kittens on cushions, haven't you, Paul?"

The hysterical laughter threatens to unseat Paul's hair, so John reluctantly shuts up; doesn't want to be here all night whilst he starts that lot again. 

Paul has gone back to his preening when John suddenly spots the corner of a photograph sticking out from a pile near the foot of Mike's bed. He leans over on one elbow, snags it and squints at the image. Without his glasses it takes a second to come into focus, but when it does...

John has the oddest sensation, like he has to remind himself to breath.

Mike has obviously caught Paul unawares, concentrating on the newspaper in his hands. And John can tell he's sitting in the living room downstairs, from the arch of the cushion behind him and the door in the background.

But it's not really those things that catch his eye and hold him there, it's more the curve of Paul's eyebrow, the set of his lips. He looks serious, older, more intense. It strikes John that he might spend all day with him most of the time, but he's never looked at him and seen this before. This isn't the jammy pretty-boy who charms the pants off the old and young alike, this is someone else. For the first time since he's met him, John can't recognise Paul's baby face, and it gives him the oddest sensation.

And for some reason his eyes keep being drawn down, to the open neck of the shirt, to the collarbone exposed there, creating a shadow where the material disappears round to hug Paul's neck. That patch of skin, though it's only really tiny, is commanding John's attention and when he catches himself he realises he feels warm and embarrassed and flushed. It's just stupid old Paul, he tells himself, the one who listens to what his dad tells him about the width of his trousers and throws up like a girl after more than a few drinks. 

But... it's not.

The first word that falls into John's head is beautiful, and that's not right because Bardot is beautiful; Hepburn too, at a push, if you're being objective and ignoring the fact she looks like she wouldn't even give it up if you married her first. _Girls_ are beautiful, not lads, and especially not lads John knows from council estates in Allerton. But the word keeps repeating in John's head every time he tries to search for something better to describe the image before him. 

Beautiful, and John can't stop looking at his mouth. He imagines the tip of a tongue wetting those lips, darting out until they're as shiny as they are plump and inviting.

And it makes him wonder if Paul is a good kisser; must be, John supposes, with a mouth like that. The girls all seem to enjoy it, anyway - either that or Paul just has a thing for pulling moaners. Objectively, John can see how that mouth would be a good mouth to kiss; can imagine that those lips would be soft and pliant and full.

"Right, I'm ready."

John looks up. "What?"

"I'm ready," Paul says, slipping his comb in his back pocket. And John feels like he fell asleep on the bus and has woken up several stops past where he wanted to be.

"Oh, right."

"What are you staring at?" Paul asks, dropping easily onto the bed beside him, and John feels more acutely aware of his body than he has done in years when Paul takes hold of one corner of the photograph and angles it slightly, so he can see. "Me?"

John shrugs. His elbow is a matter of inches away from Paul's elbow, but why this information registers in his brain, John doesn't know. He feels hot and strange and like he wants to get outside onto the street where there are other people. And yet also at the same time he feels as though he wants to stay here and never move, a few seconds away from Paul.

"I didn't know he'd taken that one."

"Right," John says, and realises his voice is cracked. He coughs. "Bit of a...." He doesn't know how to finish that sentence.

"Bit of a what?" Paul asks, and he's so close John can smell aftershave that he's never noticed before.

"Panty-peeler."

Paul starts laughing again, loud and hard and expressive. "You dick," he says fondly. Then he gets up, all business-like, though he's still smiling. "Come on, we'll be late."

_"Later,_ you mean."

"Yes, later. Well? Come on, then."

And John realises, as though looking at himself from the outside, that he's still lying on Mike's bed with the photo in his hands. He hasn't moved, and is aware of the rumpled blankets beside him where Paul has just been lying. He's also aware that he wants this photo, but knows there's no way to snatch it with Paul standing right there staring at him. 

"Comes to something when I'm keeping _you_ waiting," John says, tossing the photo back onto the bed beside him and standing, hiking up his jeans. It flickers through his mind that Paul might turn around and leave before him, giving him a chance to lean back and pick up the photo, but no such luck - in a second, Paul has his hand at the base of John's spine (warm through his shirt) and is propelling him out of Mike's bedroom door.

"God," Paul says, "I bet you don't nag Cyn this much."

"Cyn doesn't take as long as you, thank Christ. I'd have dumped her ages ago if she did."

They're at the top of the stairs when Paul leans down and speaks into John's ear. "You going to dump me, then?" he asks, acting stupid. But John suddenly doesn't _feel_ very stupid.

"Don't be such an arsehole, Paul." Then he takes the stairs two at a time to get down to the front door quicker.

"Alright, alright, no need to get tetchy - sorry."

There's a bit of an atmosphere as they slam the front door behind them and make their way down the path; John is too busy with his mind going on overtime to think too much about it. Will this work? He grits his teeth and hopes so. "Oh shit," he says, wishing he was a better liar. "I left my money on the top in your room."

Paul instantly sighs. "Bloody hell, John..." 

"Just give us the keys, I won't be a sec."

With a leap of relief, John sees that Paul starts to dig his pocket for his house keys. It seems like an age until he finds them. "I'll wait here, don't be long or we'll miss the bus."

"Yeah," John says, already retracing his steps up the road. "The irony of that one will keep you warm whilst you're standing here in the freezing cold, son."

He misses Paul's sarcastic comeback, but then he's up the garden path and unlocking Paul's front door, so he doesn't much care. John dashes up the stairs, crosses the landing into Mike's room and spots the photo instantly. He's loath to crease it by folding it, but it won't go in his pocket any other way, and he can't risk putting it in his jacket in case it falls out and Paul sees it. 

Before he slips the folded article in his back pocket, John glances at the photograph again.

Yeah, he thinks, those lips look like he'd be a good kisser.

 

 

When John wakes up the next morning, he has a headache from the night before. He lies there, struggling with his own body trying to get back to sleep, then gives up. It's nearly midday anyway, but it's a Sunday so the house is quiet, probably only the scribble of a pen coming from the student's room and the occasional snort of sleep from the stray downstairs that followed him home last week and is currently getting more affection from Mimi that he's seen in twenty years.

John turns over in bed and spots his jeans from last night, thrown over the back of his chair. Dragging himself upright, he leans over and grabs them, riffling the pockets until he finds it.

The photograph.

Even if events of last night are hazy, the memory of this isn't. John lies back down, not caring that his jeans have fallen to the floor, and fumbles on the nightstand for his glasses so he can see the damn thing properly. When he has them on, he extends his arms above him, lets himself gaze at that quirked eyebrow once again, eyes flickering down to the exposed collarbone. 

John isn't sure why he's so fascinated by the image of Paul, doesn't quite know what it is that has struck him about it or why his eyes seem obsessed with it, but he feels like they want to feast on it, like he could look at this all day and never get bored. 

Then a memory comes back to him from last night, stark in the moment that his eyes flit to Paul's mouth once again. He remembers watching Paul kiss Dot, easy to spot amongst the press of bodies in the club because Paul was _always_ easy to spot, always stood out to John, even without his glasses on. But they were quite close anyway, so he could just about manage to see the way his lips crushed against Dot's tiny little frail ones (looks like she'd be a bit frigid in bed, all 'No, not there' and 'I'm not doing that' - so very different from Cyn, who gets wild in the bedroom, which John very much appreciates). Paul looked like he was giving her a good time, Dot certainly seemed pretty breathless when it was over and lying there in bed, John seems to recall he was rather breathless at one point too.

John finds he's not surprised by this, probably because nothing surprises him anymore. God's such a twisted fucker he's already dumped him with Mimi and killed his mother, so it makes sense he'd give John queer feelings for his best mate too. Fuck knows what's next, probably some hideous deformity and the slow raging of his senses until he's in a lunatic's home somewhere, having to have his arse wiped and only being allowed out under the cover of darkness in case he scares the children.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

John sighs, glancing back down to that curve of Paul's chin. He finds himself wondering how soft the skin would be there, what Paul would be like to bite on, just gently. He wonders if Paul goes in for that sort of thing, knows from times spent in beds next to each other in Hamburg and various wanking sessions that now seem to take on a whole new light, what sort of noise Paul makes when he comes. John realises _he_ wants to be the cause of that noise. Just once. It's only sensible to try everything at least once. And now he decides he probably wants to try Paul; _definitely_ wants to try those lips. He spends a second imagining what it would be like, that full little mouth against his.

John begins to feel the rest of his body waking up, slips one hand beneath the bedsheets and groans quietly into the silence of his bedroom at the initial sparks of satisfaction.

He drops the photograph onto the nightstand, discards his glasses a second later.

He might think about it, imagine it, but he certainly can't _look_ at it when he comes, that would be _weird._

 

 

It's not like he thinks about it and works up the courage, rather they're just walking home one night through one of the back streets and John suddenly decides on the spur of the moment that now would be a good time.

Well, as good a time as any. Because there's never a good time to get your lip split for trying to kiss your best mate.

"Paul," he says, to get his attention, because Paul has his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets and is frowning at the floor as he walks, clearly something on his mind. Sod that, John thinks, I'll take his mind off it. 

And when Paul looks up, John just _does_ it - stops him, places his hand on the back of Paul's head and leans in, kisses him. The heat of Paul's mouth is a pleasant shock in the freezing Liverpool night.

But of course it only lasts a second, because then Paul pushes him away. _Shoves,_ actually, and John feels a bit like he's been winded.

"Fucking hell, John!"

Paul is frowning, looking disgusted and confused and... John can barely look at him, even in the low orange lamplight illuminating the street. Then Paul scrubs at his mouth with the back of his hand. "What the hell was that?"

When John doesn't answer, Paul wipes his mouth again and stutters, "Ch - christ," then charges away down the alleyway, not quite running but hardly walking either.

John just stands there, still not even surprised by his own stupidity. He leans his forehead against the cool brickwork of someone's backyard wall and tries to calm his breathing down - yet another momentous fuck up in the life of John Lennon. He smacks his hand against the wall, calling himself a cunt into the quiet night air and then concentrates on the pain of the stone digging into the firm flesh of his palm.

You stupid, vile freak of nature, he thinks.

 

 

For the next four days, John avoids Paul like the plague. He cancels their double date with Cyn and Dot, telling Cyn he has some sort of raging flu, which she threatens to help come and nurse him out of, but he tells her to get lost and puts the phone down. Then he retreats to his bedroom, where he writes long, rambling letters to Stu and shouts obscenities to the student when she tries to bring him lunch one afternoon.

Then on the fourth night, Mimi calls up the stairs to him. "John? Your little friend's here!"

John immediately feels himself break into some sort of cold sweat. He's sitting on his bed drawing strange, deformed little pictures of Paul and he flings his notebook across the room, grabs his chair and wedges it firmly under the door handle. "Tell him I'm busy!" John shouts back, but it's useless because he can already hear Paul's familiar footsteps on the stairs.

Then he waits, quietly, until he hears the floorboard creak outside his bedroom. "John?"

"I'm busy, Paul," he says. Then in case he hasn't got the message, "Fuck off."

"Look, I don't know what the hell that was the other night but - let's just forget it, alright?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," John says, looking down at his rickety old chair pushed up against the door as though he's expecting Paul to break in. He feels hot shame flush through him, the queer hiding behind the door from the normal guy outside. "Now just get lost; you're always hanging around like a stupid little dog, Paul, I'm sick of the sight of you."

There is a second whilst John hopes and prays that that will have been cutting enough, will have hit just the right spot. But then Paul speaks again, sounding like he's trying his very best to be civil, here. "I'm not angry, I just - "

"Christ!" John shouts, then thinks of Mimi downstairs and lowers his tone a little. "You're not the only fucking thing in my life, Paul, not everything's always about you, alright?"

That seems to do the trick, because a few seconds later there is the noise of gentle footsteps treading over the landing, turning and disappearing down the stairs. After a few minutes, John takes the chair away from the door and opens it carefully, looking out.

The landing is empty, but a vague smell of that aftershave he hasn't long been aware of lingers where Paul has been.

 

 

John can't stay inside forever, though; they have a gig at the Cavern on Friday, so he catches the early bus, goes into the Grapes for two shots of whiskey beforehand and then makes his way up Mathew Street, nodding at Mal on the door before he heads down, glad of the crappy lighting and the chatter of the people already packed onto the dance floor.

"Alright?" Paul says, when he sees him, being over-friendly as though trying to make up for all of the churlishness John is bringing to their friendship (if they still have a friendship, of course).

"Yeah, great," John says, then walks past him. Seeing Paul's face only serves to remind him, make him feel even more ashamed.

Out on the stage, they play really fucking badly. But thankfully the regulars don't seem to mind, the girls still flash them their best smiles, hike up their skirts a little when they know they're being looked at. And John manages to avoid Paul's eyes, lets George and Pete know he's not to be messed with this evening and they get through the set, probably at lightening speed. Afterwards, when they're packing up their stuff and John is trying to make a sharp exit, he feels Paul's hand on his arm and turns around.

"Can we... can we get a drink or something? Please?"

He is just about to say no, disappear into the darkness without an excuse when the fingers curled around his wrist squeeze gently.

"I should probably get back," he says.

"One won't hurt, will it?" Paul looks hopeful. And his lips look good, parted because he's still slightly out of breath from the rush on the stage; combined with the damp, sweaty cling of hair on his forehead, John can hardly say no, even if he only stays to _look_ at him for an hour.

"Alright, but just one."

They can never get any peace in the Cavern from the girls, so they go back to the Grapes, where the owner knows them and lets them in the back because he's having a lock-in anyway - they tell him they'll sit quietly in the corner. One drink turns into two, two turns into three, three turns into four and by the time they're on their fifth, John actually feels like talking. 

"You've been very patient," he says, "sitting here in silence."

"Waiting for you to come out of your mood," Paul smiles, then clinks his glass against John's. "So, you out of it now then?"

"Might be," John replies, and can feel the warm, slow spread of the alcohol through his body. He sits back on his seat, relaxed for the first time in days.

"That little red-head was asking after you before you turned up tonight; reckon you could have her."

"The one with the little piggy nose?" John asks, and feels that familiar kick of pleasure when Paul starts laughing.

"Yeah, that's her."

"Na," John says, "It'd be wrong, like doing a pig. Can't think of where she'd want to put her trotters."

Paul practically snorts into his pint glass, still grinning a few minutes later. "Be worth a go, though; she looks like a right one."

"You'd have to point her at the wall though," John says, slugging back the rest of his beer. "And hope you didn't catch sight of her in a mirror in the middle of it." Paul, who for all his own polite airs and graces, has always enjoyed John's cruelty, laughs like he was probably thinking the same thing again. Whilst he's busy sniggering at the table and trying not to be too loud because of the party at the other side of the room, John watches the way his nose creases up slightly when he laughs, the way he starts to bend at the middle, like his whole body gives in to the laughter, not just his face. And Paul's shirt sleeves are rolled up too, starting to unravel at the elbow but exposing the clean, white skin of his arms; it makes John want to touch him, winking out the voice in his head that tells him this is a very bad idea.

"You want another?" John hears himself ask. Paul doesn't even hesitate, just holds out his glass. His face looks open, friendly - not a trace of that frown from the night John kissed him, or any of the confusion, either.

He's standing at the bar, waiting for their drinks when John decides to sneak a look, wondering what Paul could be thinking. As he turns, he realises that Paul is looking at _him,_ eyes rather intense, and he doesn't look away when he realises John has spotted him. 

They're staring at each other for so long, John almost doesn't hear the barmaid. "Hey, soft lad!"

John jumps, turns back around. "What?"

"I said that's one and sixpence, if you don't mind."

John pays, then takes the drinks back to their table. "She's a miserable old cow, that one," he says, handing Paul his pint. Their fingers meet on the cold of the glass as John passes it over, and he notices how Paul meets his eyes as it happens. 

"Probably needs a good seeing to," Paul says.

"Putting yourself up for the job?"

The smile John gets in return for this is nothing but glowing. He feels it swim and settle warm in his stomach, seeming to heat him all over, just from resting there. "I reckon we'd both have to have a go at the same time, to put a smile on her face."

The thought of that, of them sharing a bird, makes John wet his lips without realising what he's doing. Then in his mind, the girl seems to vanish, and it's just the two of them. Which seems much, _much_ better. "I think we'd better make this your last," John grins, "You're clearly pissed if you'd do her, even sharing the job." And Paul grins too, which is good enough for him.

Combined with the few they'd had whilst on stage, their six drinks at the Grapes ensure that as they stumble out of the back door of the pub a few moments later, John feels comfortably drunk. And he doesn't notice the cold night air as much, despite the fact the sweat from being in the club so long has dried on his body and gives him a slight chill. 

They catch the last bus from the main station in the middle of town, walking in companionable silence. John tries not to think about anything too much, feels that easy silence in his mind come naturally, something he's been seeking ever since... Maybe he should have just got pissed out of his mind earlier in the week, made the days go slightly easier.

They're sitting at the back of the bus, watching the lights of the city fly past, on their way back up to the suburbs when suddenly Paul grabs John's arm. "What?" he says, roused out of his pleasantly quiet trance, enjoying the silence.

"Let's get off here."

"What?" John frowns. "We're ages away from Woolton."

"I know, but I fancy a walk."

"A walk? Are you fucking mental, Paul? It's half two in the morning."

"So? Come on."

Paul stands up and doesn't let go of his arm, tugging at him slightly as he steps away from their seat. Still pleasantly numbed from the alcohol, John follows him, aware that Paul still hasn't let go of his arm.

"Can you let us off here, mate?" Paul asks the driver. After making a fuss about having to stop in the middle of the road, he opens the door and they barrel onto the pavement, the cold hitting them the second they step down.

"Where are we?" John asks, when the noise of the bus has gone and they've started walking, heads bowed against the cold. 

"Penny Lane, I think," Paul tells him. 

They keep moving through the deserted streets, John's head so blank that he has nothing to fill the silence with until Paul says -

"So, what _was_ that about, the other night?"

Even though the alcohol has dulled his synapses, John immediately knows what Paul is asking about. He feels his shoulders tense in reaction, almost hears the embarrassment begin to course through his veins. Clearly he's been silent longer than he realised though, because Paul says, "John?"

"I don't know what you - "

But then Paul grabs his arm again, harder this time, and John is thrown off slightly when he's pulled into the shallow darkness of an alleyway, leading off towards the back of some dark houses in the distance. "You kissed me," Paul says, quite abruptly.

"Fucking hell, keep your voice down, will you?" John suddenly feels starkly sober. The earlier quiet of his mind has gone, and with it the peace regarding this particular memory, too.

"Just - just tell me what it was about," Paul finally sighs, voice much lower and softer this time. John can tell he's sorry, knows that Paul gets instantly regretful if he does something like that, disturbing the peace. It's probably that softness in his voice that is the only thing that makes John reply at all.

"I don't know, do I? I just... thought about it, so I did it."

He isn't sure if he hears Paul sigh again, but he senses confusion. "You just... thought about it? Out of nowhere?"

John shrugs. "No. Maybe, I don't know."

"What d'you mean, 'no'? Had you thought about it before?"

After an uncomfortable second trying to think of a reply, John sighs loudly. "What does it matter, Paul? I said I was sorry, can't we just forget it?"

"You didn't, actually," Paul corrects him. "But that's beside the point. And it matters because I want to know how long you've been looking at me and thinking about kissing me."

It's a fair point really, John admits, although he's squirming like a mouse caught in a cage because he doesn't really have any answers. Well, not valid ones, anyway.

"Not long, just a bit. I'm not queer, you know."

Paul sighs loudly, sounding exasperated. John can only just see him in the crappy light but he can make out those eyes, all ardent and honest. "I _know_ that, you tosser; I'd have told you that the other day if you'd have just let me into your room."

"I was busy," John hears himself say, but it sounds as pathetic as it did the other evening and he almost cringes.

"Yeah, so you said. So..." And John is slightly surprised to hear that Paul seems to have stumbled upon difficulty speaking himself. He's been so sure of what he wanted to say so far, it's slightly off-putting to know that Paul suddenly isn't in charge. 

"So what?"

"So... what was it like?"

"What?"

Paul sighs, like he's trying to teach the guitar to a two year old. "Kissing me," he says, sounding embarrassed.

"Well I don't bloody know, do I?" John asks. "You shoved me away before I got a chance to find out."

There is a few heartbeats silence and then Paul says, "Why did you want to know what it was like?" His voice sounds shaky, and John wonders what that means, feels a zing of interest start to spark in his veins. He decides to take a chance, tell the truth.

"That photograph of you, in Mike's bedroom. I looked at your mouth and decided... I wanted to know what that was like."

Even though there is silence after that, John can actually _feel_ it, the atmosphere around them. He breathes it in, feeling like it's a key, winding him up ready to let him go.

"My... my mouth?" Paul asks, and his voice is small but John knows that Paul understands what he does to people better than he'd ever let on. He knows how pretty he is, always has done; he knows his own charm and he uses it on people around him every day. But still John lets him play daft, play coy; it feels exciting.

"Yeah. I decided I wanted to know what you tasted like."

Paul says nothing for another long moment, but John can hear him breathing, and that's enough. He knows he's working up to something, decides to let him get there by himself. "But you never got to find out," he eventually says.

"No."

There is another heartbeat and then - "Why don't you do it now then?"

John feels his stomach topple over, suddenly needs to swallow very badly. "You'll just pull away and - "

"I _won't_ pull away," Paul tells him, and his quiet voice sounds serious. John gives himself a second to remember to breath, wets his lips and then steps forward. He can feel the heat coming off Paul's body, contrasting with the chill of the night air.

It's the heat that lets him find Paul, but then he discovers that the body in front of him is almost shaking from nerves, tense and unmoving. Wondering if this is going to be a disaster, John closes the small gap between them, hopes the proximity of his body might loosen Paul up a bit, remind him this is supposed to be fun, not terrifying.

Reminiscent of their encounter a few nights ago, John reaches up and pushes his fingers into Paul's hair; being this close up, the nerves are almost tangible, like they're radiating off Paul in waves. Ignoring the voice in his head telling him that this isn't going exactly as he planned, John brushes his lips ever-so-lightly across Paul's, unsure quite what to do about nerves like this, how to make them disappear.

"Paul," he says, against his mouth, aware of how inviting those lips are, verging on the edge of desperation to properly have them. "Come on, relax, it's just me." Then John lets his fingers fall down through Paul's hair until they're gently stroking the back of his neck. 

He can barely believe how patient he's being, feeling like a coiled spring inside, then he kisses the corner of Paul's lips, coaxing him out of this strange paralysis; John's seen him with birds, seen him do things that sometimes even make _John_ blush, so he knows he's hardly frigid. It's a kiss, that's all, just a simple kiss.

Then he sweeps his tongue briefly along Paul's bottom lip and feels some response, an arch into his mouth. John tries again, kissing Paul with his lips parted until suddenly Paul is kissing back, opening his mouth against him and John feels like moaning loudly in response, just from relief.

Paul's lips are as soft as he imagined, but John had never been able to conceive of the faint scratch of stubble against his chin; he feels the scrape of it go straight to his groin, just enjoying the sheer _difference_ of it. Then Paul's hand is on the side of his face, changing the angle of their kiss so that John can have anything he wants; the slide of a tongue against his urges John onwards and suddenly all he can hear in the quiet of the alleyway is the sound of their kissing, the slightly desperate, uneven noise of their breathing. It seems to fill every part of him with heat, especially as Paul relaxes against him more and more every second until eventually John feels a hand nestling in his back pocket, fitting them closer together.

When John ends the kiss, they're both panting. The feel of warm breath against his cheek is driving him slowly insane so he tries to step away, for both of their sakes, but Paul grabs hold of his arm. "Do it again," he says, his chest rising and falling far too fast.

"Are you su-"

"Yes, just do it."

So John kisses him again, and this time Paul is in it from the very first second, moving against him eagerly and sharing great lungfuls of the cold night air around them whenever they can grab a chance. The picture of Paul that's now become more familiar to him flashes in John's mind and the memory of it causes him to kiss harder, biting gently on Paul's bottom lip until he moans quietly, the fingers in John's hair tightening in pleasure.

There comes a moment at which John eventually has to move away, breathing heavily into the cool air.

"What?" Paul says, sounding at once disappointed and confused about the sudden lack of a warm body against his.

"I'm not - " John breathes, unsure of what to say. He's twenty one; the last time he had to put the brakes on things was when he was about fifteen, and he's been with Cyn for two years, used to having whatever he wants - he doesn't want to feel like a teenager again. "I'm not... used to stopping," he says, feeling red and embarrassed and more unseated than he has in years. In the darkness, John watches Paul's eyes for a response.

"So..." Paul glances down at the ground quickly, scruffs his boot against the cobbles then looks back up and shrugs, as though this is normal. "Don't. Let's go back to mine; we don't _have_ to stop."

For a second John can barely believe what Paul is saying. But then the image of him, spread out beneath him, those cool, pale arms around his waist, causes John to swallow hard with want.

"Right," he hears himself say, voice shaky. And as they set off in the direction of Allerton, shoulders nudging one another as they walk, he just hopes his knees won't give out before they get there.


End file.
